“No politician would walk on stage today like Thatcher.”

The silence was such that many people attending the conference, including those in nearby hotels, had no idea what had happened until they woke up the next morning. The fact that the bomb was not in a car but in a hotel muffled its sound to a dull “boo” followed by the sound of the hotel floors colliding with each other.

As I deposited my copy in the Metropole phone booth, it struck me that there might be a bomb there too. The stupidest solution would be to place a device in the neighboring hotel that turns on an hour later.

This thought clearly crossed the minds of the local police who were directing refugees from the Grand to the Metropole. Suddenly this too was evacuated.

A strange scene began. Dozens of guests in night clothes strolled through the still evening air. I found myself on the wall next to a embarrassed Sir Keith Joseph, who was wearing silk pajamas and a dressing gown.

Everyone was milling around, not knowing what to do, as the fire department began a rescue operation outside the Grand and ambulances took the injured to nearby hospitals. (The next day Marks & Spencer opened at 8am to help guests replace clothes left under the rubble).

We reflected on the sacrifices. Considering the condition of the hotel, there would certainly be many injuries and even deaths. But where was the prime minister? Several of us were notified that she was alive and would soon be picked up in her company car at the back of the hotel. She was then taken to the local police station, where she explained that the conference would take place the next day.